


Thy due place, and an audience

by uumuu



Series: To Fall Into Place [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Finwë is finally a happy father, Half-Sibling Incest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Maglor and Lalwen didn't make it to the party, POV Multiple, PWP, Public Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The confrontation between Fëanor and Fingolfin takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy due place, and an audience

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly revised version from the one I posted on the kink meme.

Finarfin's foremost thought was that it was a good thing his mother was not in Tirion, as he cast a sidelong glance at his father and noticed that he was watching the scene unfolding in front of them – of everybody who happened to be in the main square, actually (and it was a lot of people, the council had attracted a large, expectant crowd) – with an expression of joy and relief. 

Any other thoughts he might have had were lost in a fruitless attempt to process what his eyes saw. 

Fëanor used his hold on Fingolfin's hair to wrench his mouth from his cock and drag him up from where he was kneeling. Fingolfin licked his lips, and let his half-brother push him towards one of the benches which stood under the fountain directly opposite the palace entrance. Fëanor brusquely chased away the elf who had been sitting on it (the stunned young man remained petrified next to it, unable to leave or protest). His hands quickly divested Fingolfin of his formal robes, doing away with layer after layer of richly decorated fabric, seconding the growing excitement of a good part of the onlookers.

Curufin, who was sitting on a nearby bench with Caranthir, readily picked up Fingolfin's precious garments as his father threw them carelessly to the ground, not out of any concern for them, but because he disliked untidiness, and had acquired the habit as he had begun finding his father and uncle's clothing strewn just about anywhere in their house.

“Give it to him hard!” shouted Aredhel as loudly as she could when her father was finally naked, with Findis giggling at her side. She had claimed a spot on a balcony with a perfect view on the whole square and rolled back her sleeves as soon as the council had begun. From there, she had witnessed every salient detail of the proceedings, once they had moved outside, with the same transport with which she would have watched a wrestling match (the astonishment that had silenced the square once people had realized what was truly happening had been beyond priceless).

“Well, what are you waiting for?” prodded Fingolfin, left leg draped over the armrest, his painfully hard cock jutting out (pointing directly to a group of girls who happened to sit on the bench to his right), his ass spread open by Fëanor's rough hands.

Fëanor grinned, half-kneeling on the polished marble, and put the tip of his cock to the tight opening. He rubbed it slowly up and down, pushing as if to enter but retreating before his cockhead could slip in.

Fingolfin scowled. “Do it.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck me!” he growled impatiently. He knew everybody's eyes were on him, and he was hornier than he had ever been. He had barely managed to play his part after his half-brother had issued his command in their father's presence, and all the blood in his body seemed to rush to his groin, tugging all rational thought along. “Curse it, fuck me right no- ah!”

Fëanor drove in suddenly, with a quick forceful jerk of his hips that buried him deep in Fingolfin's ass. Several people gasped. Fingolfin let out a low throaty moan.

Turgon felt faint. He had seen enough. He had to leave. He turned to go, but realized Elenwë wasn't at his side. He spotted her standing next to his mother, at the front of the crowd that had assembled at the foot of the low staircase leading into the palace. They were talking, neither seemingly disturbed by what was going on. They seemed rather fascinated, in fact. 

(“You knew about it?”

“Oh, I found out soon enough”.

“And you're fine with it?”

“As long as they let me watch sometimes...it's not hard, really. Ñolofinwë loves being watched, and Fëanáro doesn't mind.”)

“Turvo!” Argon appeared behind his older brother at the top of the stairs, looking befuddled. “What's going-...on” he glanced down; Fëanor thrust into his father – and his father rolled his hips back onto him – with the natural abandon of two animals in rut. 

“Oh Valar,” Argon cursed. He had been reading in the library, oblivious to the world, until the noise of hurrying feet and excited voices had alerted him to the fact that something was amiss. The people he had asked had seemed reluctant to tell him what exactly was the matter, however, and now he undestood why. “How?”

Turgon shook his head. “I- I-...don't know! Fëanáro suddenly barges into the room all threatening, Father goes away without saying a word and next thing he's on his knees in the middle of the damn square ready to suck Fëanáro's cock.” There was no denying that his father had been more than willing when he had swallowed Fëanor's shaft. “And then -” he gestured towards the fountain.

Fëanor completely pulled out of Fingolfin and entered him again, repeating the motion once, twice, closing his eyes to savour the sensation of his brother's sphincter dilating when he pushed in and tightening to hold him back when he retreated.

Turgon grimaced.

“Does Mother know?”

“Well, she does now if she didn't before.” Turgon had a feeling his mother had already been privy to the untoward relationship (she wouldn't have been so calm if she hadn't), but refused to mull over the fact for the moment. “Írissë did know.” 

“Don't make such a face, Turvo!” chirped Aredhel.

Turgon looked up to retort, but as he did he noticed, to his horror, that Idril was on the same balcony, and that she was pointing and commenting cheerfully with Fingon and Maedhros.

Findis had in the meanwhile hastily retrieved a drawing pad, and was filling page after page of sketches of her brothers fucking, biting her lower lip in fervent concentration (it was too gorgeous a spectacle not to preserve it for posterity. And Lalwen wasn't there, it would have been unfair if she were to completely miss it).

Turgon shook his head dejectedly, and met Finarfin's mystified, almost apologetic gaze – as if he was sorry he couldn't reassure his nephew, and his own children, in any way. Galadriel in particular was pale and visibly tense. Aegnor's hair stood straighter than usual and his eyes were so large that Turgon would have laughed at how comic he appeared under any other circumstance.

Finrod had slowly, unconsciously, made his way through the crowd, irresistably drawn to the scene, and nearly jumped off the floor when somebody draped an arm over his shoulders. 

“Enjoying yourself, cousin?”

Celegorm's face loomed close to his.

“I -” he was unprepared to reply – he was turned on, shocked and confused all in one – all the more so when he realized he was dangerously close to the fountain. “...it's not the first time you see...this,” he said instead.

“No, in fact. Though I didn't believe they would really take their dirty little game here, and lost a bet.” He nodded to the right and Finrod turned to see the twins standing at his other side glowing with self-satisfaction.

“It was planned?”

Celegorm snickered. “You think Father could've gone in like that if Uncle hadn't been ready for it?”

“But- why?”

“Why not?” Amras asked in turn. “We've seen them fuck practically everywhere and in any possible way...it's nice of them to share with everybody else too, isn't it?”

Fëanor abruptly slid out of his brother's ass again and stood up. He forced Fingolfin up too, bent him over the back of the bench, gripping his hips and roughly plunging into him once more. Fingolfin howled in delight, each of his brother's thrusts making him shiver in the most thrilling way.

“Make him come!” cheered Anairë after a while. 

Aredhel whistled her approval.

Galadriel whirled around and dashed back into the palace, face scrunched in irritation, refusing to accept the fact that she was aroused and wet, that she had been from the moment Fëanor had caught up with Fingolfin at the doors and kissed him voraciously.

Fëanor's hands glided up his half-brother's sides and round to his chest, tweaking his nipples, before his left hand went back to Fingolfin's hip, whereas his right wrapped around his cock. He rubbed his calloused thumb over the head, and grazed the slit with his nail.

Fingolfin gritted his teeth and his whole body tensed. He came with a violent shudder, and his seed sprayed all over the bench (the young man standing dazedly nearby came too without even realizing it at first).

Fëanor thrust a few more times and let himself go. He drew out as soon as the last of his seed had spurted inside his brother and turned to face the audience, giving them a perfect view of Fingolfin's well fucked ass. A satisfied smirk twisted his thin lips.

Caranthir promptly threw him a handkerchief – he hadn't moved from where he had been knitting the whole time, only looking up from time to time with the unimpressed air of somebody who has seen it all far too many times to care.

Fëanor wiped himself clean and tucked his cock, still half-hard, back into his pants.

“Come on.” He slapped Fingolfin's ass.

Fingolfin slowly straightened and faced the crowd too, dauntlessly. 

Fëanor inclined his head towards the palace in silent command, the promise of more in his eyes. Fingolfin held his gaze steadily for a moment, then started to walk. He managed to look dignified (as dignified as was possible) even naked, with his cheeks flushed and the imprint of his brother's hands on his hips, and his seed trickling down his thighs. 

Curufin preceded him, swift and graceful as a cat, flashing Turgon a smug, commiserating smile as he passed him on the stairs carrying his father's clothes.

Finwë met his sons at the doors, and hugged them both together.

“You...you don't hate each other.”

Fingolfin and Fëanor exchanged a sly look, the understanding and affection behind it clearly perceptible, and shook their heads.

Finwë sighed and kissed them both on the forehead, grumbling about them not telling him and making him worry for nothing.

“Whose idea was this?” Finarfin couldn't help asking, and couldn't help sounding reproachful.

“Ñolvo's, obviously.”

The terse reply – and the fact that Fingolfin didn't deny it – baffled Finarfin, but Finwë silenced his next question with a withering glare.

“Don't bother with such trifling details,” he said, and motioned for his other two sons to go, following them inside.

Finarfin remained outside. Their father had apparently accepted the unexpected turn of events without question, but his brothers – both of them – would have a lot of explaining to do to him.


End file.
